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At the table sat a man—or at least what at first blush appeared to be a man. May was no longer so quick to make assumptions. His back was to her, but he reached up over his head and waved his hand forward, beckoning her.
“Come in, little sister,” he called. In the next instant he was on the opposite side of the table, facing her.
The man, jet haired and as handsome as any matinee idol, was dressed in a worn smoking jacket. He sat in his chair reversed, with one arm draped across its back. On the table before him sat a battered top hat with a band dyed a shocking shade of red and a wicked-looking knife with a long curved blade. He lowered his head, gazing at her with a playful, mischievous look in his midnight-blue eyes. His long, elegant fingers held one of the cigars May had smelled. The other was tucked neatly between the lips of the Beekeeper, who hovered near the man, her feet not touching the ground.
“Ah, now the party can begin,” the Beekeeper said, chewing the words out from around the cheroot. Her hand held an empty decanter, which she raised as if to toast May’s arrival. Regarding it with disappointment, she pushed it away and reached into nothingness to retrieve another dust-covered bottle. “Do come join us, dearie.”
May cast her eyes toward where the floor should be, but there was nothing but an endless depth. Stars twinkled within the sea of blackness, so she cast her eyes upward, rationalizing that its surface was so well polished, it reflected the overhead sky. That supposition was quickly dashed when she saw that the stars above did not align with those below. She tested the surface’s solidity, tapping it with her toe before trusting it to support her weight. When it didn’t fall out from under her, she took another step inside, pulling the door almost closed behind her, unwilling to let go of the knob in case the floor changed its mind and decided to swallow her whole.
“It’s only familiarity that makes you so sure the floor beneath you will hold you up. This”—the Beekeeper wiggled her gloved fingers over the yawning chasm beneath her—“is energy.” She pointed over May’s shoulder to the world that lay beyond the now halfway-open door, “Just as all that is energy. Now stop trying my patience, child. Come.”
May did as she was told, releasing the faceted glass knob and taking another step out into a seeming nothingness. The surface beneath her feet felt more solid
as her confidence in its solidity grew.
“Yes,” the Beekeeper said, reaching out her hand, which May gladly caught hold of. In that instant, the world beneath her gave way, and she, too, was floating. Her grasp tightened on the Beekeeper’s glove. “Do not worry, child,” the Beekeeper said with a laugh. “This world is just as solid and real as the dream you know beyond the door.” She pulled her hand from May’s hold, and May realized that while she didn’t feel a surface beneath her, she wasn’t tumbling through an eternal darkness. The world around her was sufficient to provide her with the support she needed.
How is this possible? May posed the question silently to herself.
“I don’t know,” the man said, then lifted his cigar to his lips. He took a puff, and as he blew it out, he raised his eyebrows and shrugged. “How is anything possible? It just is. We just are. You just are.” He paused. “I have missed our sunrise meetings,” he said, his lips pulling into a pout. She would have remembered this man, but before she could ask him what he meant, he stood and pulled her into a tight embrace. His lips brushed against her ear, the sensation causing her heart to leap and fanning a fire she had thought long extinguished.
“Cock-a-doodle-doo,” he whispered. Without releasing her, he stepped back, eyeing her from head to toe and back up again.
“Lester?” the name came to her, though she couldn’t bring herself to believe this flesh-and-blood man could be the rooster who’d greeted her so many mornings on her way to work.
“As good a name as any,” he said. “I’ve been called many worse.” He winked at her, then let her go and returned to his seat next to the Beekeeper. “Come, little sister. Sit. Join us.” He motioned with a flourish of his hand toward the chair across from his own.
Without realizing she had even moved, she found herself across from him. He turned to face the Beekeeper. “She is not as dried out as you led me to believe. There is still much life in her.”
“I never said otherwise,” the Beekeeper shot back. She snatched up the knife from the table and wagged it at her fellow, then picked up the bottle and used the knife to cut back the wax that had been used to seal its cork. “I have only said that she denies that life.” She worked the cork from the bottle and sent it sailing across the room. “Hold this,” she commanded May, passing her the burning cigar. After taking a swig from the bottle, the Beekeeper snatched the cigar back and pressed the bottle into May’s open hand. “There. Taste.”
May turned the bottle around in her hand, examining it. Curious yet cautious.
“See, my friend,” the Beekeeper called to the man, “she crosses the chasm to join us, but she is still terrified of letting herself go. This one is not afraid of dying; she is afraid of life.”
These words snapped something inside of May. She had spent her entire damned life being so careful—head down, voice modulated to sound respectful. She gripped the bottle and pressed it to her lips, tipping her head back and drinking till she choked. The white man patted May on the back as she held the bottle out to the applauding Beekeeper.
“So, what do you have to say for yourself, little sister,” he asked, as she felt her insides catch fire.
She said the first thing that came to her mind. “Hallelujah.”
The Beekeeper and her associate burst out laughing in unison, and despite herself, May joined them. “Hallelujah, indeed,” the man said and swiped away the bottle, tipping it to his lips and downing half its contents in a single draft.
“Hey, hey, hey.” The Beekeeper swatted him on the back and wrestled the bottle from him. “Not all at once.” She brushed aside her veil for another quick taste, then took a seat at the table and set the bottle down in front of her. Humming to herself, she rocked back and forth until her chair was balanced on its two back legs. She turned toward the man. “I’m proud of her, you know. I wanted her as a child, but her mother denied her to me. And she”—the Beekeeper pointed at May without looking at her—“denied herself to me as well. Until that fool servant of the Red King forced her to turn to me. She came to me not out of love for me, but out of fear of the Red King.”
“Well,” Lester began, his tone conciliatory, “the Red King is a fearsome creature. And little sister, she was just following her mother’s wishes.” He nodded in May’s direction. “She’s a good daughter, and you, Great Mother, should appreciate that.”
“Yes,” the Beekeeper said, though there was still a shred of resentment in her voice. “It has made our work harder, though, and I must prepare her for what is to come.” Her veiled face turned toward May. “After all, there are worse things out there than the Red King.”
May startled at her words. “What could be worse than the Red King?”
“The outsiders,” the Beekeeper said, then turned to Lester as if looking to him for corroboration. “Tell her about the outsiders.”
He leaned forward and planted his elbows on the table. “Ah, yes, the outsiders, little sister. You wake quivering from your dreams of the kings, but there are many more fearsome beings in creation.” His bright and feverish eyes caught hers and held them. “The outsiders, they’re the ones who came here and changed the native animal,” he said, the bright light of the chandelier overhead creating a play of shadows that made his handsome face appear masklike. “They made man less like himself, and more like them.”
“Let us make man in our image,” the Beekeeper pronounced. Tilting the bottle to her lips, she began to sway and dance.
“And they made you wrong,” the man said, taking no heed of the veiled one’s gyrations. “Too much of this, not enough of that. No, you may fear the Red King, but the Red King, he fears those from beyond.
